


I'll Pretend to Hold You

by wonker8



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Coping after a loved one's death, Explicit Language, Gen, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Ten Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonker8/pseuds/wonker8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months since the Loki incident, Clint still can't sleep at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Pretend to Hold You

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt "I'll pretend to hug you until you get here." It was supposed to be one of the really short stories, but then somehow this happened.

_1,532… 1,533… 1,534…_

There are exactly 30,498 dots on the ceiling. He knows this because whenever he’s alone at night, he counts while waiting for insomnia to pass and he’s finished counting everything multiple nights. Funny that even now (three years, four months, 1 week, 9 days, 2 hours, 37 minutes, 4 seconds, and counting since the first time he began to count the dots on the ceiling, after the first night Phil went on a solo mission), he’s still using the same method to wait for insomnia to pass.

_1,535… 1,536… 1,537…_

“Can’t sleep?” asks Phil as he steps out of the bathroom. He frowns down at Clint, who is staring up at the ceiling in bed.

Clint doesn’t move adjust to look at Phil. He just continues to stare up at the ceiling. Phil just makes his way to the bed, where he sits on the corner. There’s a strange tenderness there that one normally doesn’t see in Agent Phil Coulson. But it’s a gentleness that Clint has gotten used to seeing at home, when they both shed off their agent persona.

_1,538… 1,539… 1,5-_

“Clint,” Phil says, earning the archer’s full attention, who still refused to look at him head on. “It’s okay to go to sleep. I’ll stay guard.”

The other man shakes his head a little, almost defiantly like a child.

“Yes, I will,” the Agent confirms. “Go to sleep, Clint. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Clint insists. “Nothing’s okay.”

Phil sighs softly and scoots in closer. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Clint. You did absolutely nothing wrong.”

Clint shakes his head no again, still looking like a small kid. “It’s not that. I already know that it’s not technically my fault.”

The Agent frowns. “Then what’s bugging you?”

“Phil… you’re dead.”  
*  
Nick Fury rubs his temples as Maria Hill calmly reads the report of the damages that SHIELD has to take care of.

“… and he said he’ll sue our asses if we don’t take care of his destroyed building and compensate for the lost-” She stops when Fury holds up his hand. “Sir?”

“It’s been three months already,” Fury grumbles as he rubs his temples. Then he refocuses on Hill. “Enough about property damages. How is Agent Barton doing?” Agent Barton, who amongst his top assassins, still has yet to recover from the Loki incident.

Hill purses her lips and stares down at her report, knowing exactly what to say without having to actually look. “His therapist says that he’s doing remarkably well. There have already been complaints against him for leaving oranges in inconvenient places. And that’s not mentioning the various other minor pranks that have gone mostly ignored.”

“So he’s ready for a new mission.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I believe that this is all just an act. Either that or Agent Barton’s doing some serious repressing. Whatever it is, Agent Barton’s a time bomb. He’s going to go off any second now and a mission isn’t going to be conductive to keeping him from exploding.”

“Then assign him a handler.”

Hill gives Fury a stern look. “Is this supposed to be a joke, sir? Because I’m not finding any humor in this. Agent Barton lost his previous handler. The same man that he was prepared to marry, in case you forgot. And now you want to assign a new handler to him? Do you want him to explode?”

“It’s the only way to get him to face what has happened, Hill. He’ll just keep running otherwise. It’s already been three months since Loki. Everyone else has moved on. I need my sharp-shooter back.”

Put that way, Hill finds it hard to disagree. She nods slowly, her jaw muscles tightening slightly. “Who would you recommend, sir?”  
*  
“Sitwell.”

“Barton,” Jasper Sitwell answers curtly.

Neither men offer their hands. They both just stare into each other’s eyes, both assessing the amount of damage that they can potentially cause if anything went wrong. Then Clint sighs and looks up at the ceiling, ignoring the way Sitwell’s watching him critically.

 _Dots of the ceiling at Coulson’s office: 43,709._ It’s a number he knows very well. He’s spent more time here than anywhere else. How obvious is it that Sitwell will be given this office now that Phil’s gone? Phil had always taken care of Sitwell. And in an organization like SHIELD, this is the way the cookie always crumbles. _1… 2… 3…_

“This is the next mission that you’ll be on.”

 _4… Wait… What?!_ Clint’s attention snaps back to Sitwell. “The fuck are you on? I’m on probation. Not allowed until the shrinks clear me for missions! I can’t be-”

“Tracking and assassinating any of the Ten Rings members. We’re going to be on the Quinjet in oh one hundred. Everything else you need to know is in here. Dismissed.”  
*  
“So I’m sane enough to be on a mission, but not to drive a Quinjet?” Clint asks, looking at Sitwell with a bemused grin.

“You haven’t been sleeping, Barton. Take this time to get some rest.”

“Not tired.”

Sitwell looks at Clint, who stares back defiantly. Then the handler shakes his head and looks away. “How did Coulson not go insane with you?” he mutters to himself.

Clint’s sure he wasn’t supposed to have heard it. So he closes his eyes and visualizes the ceiling of the bedroom. _1… 2… 3…_  
*  
By the time that they arrive in Afghanistan, a man adorning red and gold armor is waiting for them by a tented area filled with SHIELD agents.

“Yo Legolas! Good to see you out and about!” shouts the robotic voice that’s part of Tony Stark’s speakers. “And… who’s this new agent?”

“I’m Agent Sitwell. I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Mr. Stark.” And there’s no more word after that. Instead, he walks off to talk to other agents, probably to be briefed about this mission.

The faceplate of the Ironman suit lifts up and Tony looks at Clint with a raised brow. “Really? That’s the brownnoser that they replaced Coulson with? I would have expected more from Fury.” Then there’s a pause as he tilts his head and considers how Clint looks. “How have you been? Phil was your handler, right?”

Clint snorts softly and turns away. “Wasn’t like he was a friend or anything.” And he’s gone, walking towards the rest of the agents.  
*  
 _34… 35… 36…_

“Ah! You’re here, too!” There’s relief in the other person’s voice.

Clint pauses checking his arrows to glance up at the other person. Huh. Now here’s a surprise. Bruce Banner. So Tony Stark didn’t get bored of his pet project.

“Doc,” he acknowledges.

“We… er… didn’t talk much before,” Bruce says, offering his hand. “But it’s good to see a familiar face.”

The archer stares at him for a bit before nodding at a man standing by a table with Sitwell. “That agent personally escorted Loki to the Hulk-holding facility. Sitwell was on the bridge the entire time. Over there’s Jameson. She was one of the agents who were there when Thor and Hulk fought on the Helicarrier. There are twenty others here who were on the Helicarrier. I’m not the only familiar face, doc.” Of course, there are exactly twenty-five agents here right now, counting Sitwell and Clint. Bruce and Tony are just there because… Because why, exactly?

Bruce looks startled as he whips his head back and forth, trying to match some of the faces. His expression turns from abashed to pure horror that he didn’t recognize so many people, and Clint can’t help but to roll his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it. Our job is supposed to remain undetected. The fact that you didn’t recognize them means that they’re doing their job.” Clint returns to flipping through the arrowheads.

_37… 38… 39…_

The doctor opens his mouth, trying to say something, but then stops himself, unsure of what to say. He sighs a little, runs a hand through his hair, and sits down next to Clint. He stares almost nervously at the archer for a minute, as if waiting for Clint to say something. But when Clint remains silent, Bruce shrugs a little and pulls out a small notebook. He reads, leaving Clint to go back to cleaning the arrowheads.

 _40… 41… 42…_  
*  
 _18… 17… 16…_

They take time to slowly look through the different hot spots, talking to people to see if there’s anyone related to the Ten Rings. They find nothing, just as Clint expected. They make their way back to the tents, driving through the deserts with ease. Bruce is sitting in the backseat; Clint is driving with Sitwell in the passenger seat. Tony Stark is flying above in his suit, probably coming up with a thousand different places to search tomorrow.

“This is a busywork mission,” Clint points out. “We’re on this because Fury needs us away from New York and the destruction.”

“Could be,” Sitwell says at the same time Bruce says, “You’re overthinking it.”

Both Sitwell and Clint shoot a look at Bruce. He blinks and looks back at them, confused.

“Fury’s just getting rid of us. Didn’t you notice how no one looks like they’ve gotten a decent amount of sleep? These are all agents who failed their psych evaluations.”

“But then why would Fury send…? A busywork mission… That’s what you mean. They’re here because they can’t be on real missions.”

“Yup. Busywork.”

“So you think this mission won’t have any positive result?”

“If it would, then we wouldn’t let civilians get involved.”

Bruce flinches.

“Barton, eyes on the road.”

Clint doesn’t tell Sitwell that his eyes are on the road, counting down all the landmarks until they get back to the tent site. _15… 14… 13…_  
*  
“You haven’t been sleeping at all, have you?” Sitwell asks. He’s in Clint’s tent, standing around as if he owns the place. Cheeky bastard.

“Didn’t realize that my sleeping habit is part of your concern.”

“It isn’t,” he answers. “It’s everyone’s concern. You’re one of the drivers, Barton. If you’re not in your top condition, everyone around you is going to suffer.”

“And that’s why you’re here? To tell me to sleep or else? Tch. Well, I get the message loud and clear, buddy. Go away so I can sleep.”

“Actually, I will be staying until you fall asleep.” Sitwell pulls up a chair and sits. He takes out a paperback novel and flips to a dog-marked page. Then he looks up at Clint, daring him to say something.

Clint just scoffs and lies down on the cot. He closes his eyes, visualizing the ceiling in his bedroom. _1… 2... 3…_  
*  
He manages to slip in and out of sleep for a while. Or so he thinks. He’s not too sure. But at the end of it all, he’s awoken by Tony Stark’s crazy entrance into his tent.

“What the fuck do you mean that this is a busywork mission?!” He points a finger at Clint, completely ignoring the pistol pointing at him from Sitwell. “What do you mean we aren’t going to find anything?”

“I mean exactly that, Stark. Didn’t you think it was odd that Fury agreed to lend you SHIELD agents for your personal vendetta?”

“That’s because-!”

“Come on, Stark. You aren’t stupid.”

The two stare at each other with Sitwell glancing back and forth at them. Then Stark sighs and turns away. “I’m… going to talk to Fury.”

“But just because I think it’s fruitless doesn’t mean it actually will be.”

Stark pauses. “What?”

Clint smirks. “You gamble, Stark? Why don’t we see whether we find anyone or not? If in two weeks’ time, we find Ten Rings, I will renounce my title as the ‘World’s Greatest Marksman.’ But if we don’t… You make me something.”

“… Sounds simple enough. Alright.” Tony offers Clint his hand, who takes it without a second thought. “Deal.”  
*  
 _23,245… 23,246… 23,247…_

“You’re counting again,” says a soft voice of one worried Phil Coulson.

Clint doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he focuses on the ceiling. 30,498 dots total. _23,248…_

“You’ve always counted when you couldn’t go to sleep. It’s your coping mechanism. You never change, do you? But Clint, this is a different situation. You have to sleep.”

_23,249… 23,250… 23,251…_

“You can’t count everything away again. That’s why you’re here now, on this mission. Clint, you have to sleep. There are people’s lives on the line if you refuse to sleep.”

_23,252… 23,253… 23,254…_

“Sweetheart-”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore!”

Clint’s eyes are wide open, glaring at the blank space where Phil’s voice was coming from earlier. Tent. He’s still in the tent, lying down on his cot. Sitwell has jerked awake from his position on the chair and is looking at the archer with wide eyes.

“What happened?” he demands. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just… a nightmare.”

Clint closes his eyes again, but the ceiling is hard to visualize again. He can’t hold the image in his mind.  
*  
“What’s that?”

“… A fucking map that tells us where the Ten Rings are…”

Tony smirks at Clint. “Get ready to forfeit your title, Katniss!”  
*  
 _36,298… 36,299… 36,300…_

He’s counting the dots of the ceiling in Phil’s office. He’s visualizing it in his mind’s eyes, remembering all the times that he threw some unsuspecting paper clip or pen up there, just to make another one to count.

“Are you just pretending to sleep again?”

Sitwell.

Clint opens one eye and glares at him. “What of it?”

The agent sighs and puts down his book. “I haven’t had a decent sleep in a while, you know.”

“Not my fault. You can go to sleep if you want.”

“ _What I mean_ is to ask you what’s keeping you up?”

Clint closes his eyes again. _36,301… 36,302… 36-_

“Look, if it’s about your nightmares…”

“It’s not.”

The archer can feel Sitwell’s calm stare, but he refuses to look at him again. “Look,” Clint says. “I don’t have nightmares. At least not recently. But that’s not why I’m not sleeping.”

“Then what is it?”

Clint goes quiet. When he doesn’t answer for five minutes, Sitwell sighs softly and reopens his book.

“I just can’t fall asleep.”

Sitwell looks up, but Clint is back to ignoring him. The agent looks at him thoughtfully, but Clint’s gone back to Phil’s office in his mind. _36,303… 36,304… 36,305…_  
*  
“Damn! There’s nothing here!”

“Looks to me like you’ll lose this bet, Stark.”

“I still have a week!”

“Keep talking, big guy.”  
*  
“Clint, we need to talk.”

The archer doesn’t reply. He keeps his eyes absolutely closed, and his arms crossed.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” Pause. “Alright. This is going to be another of those nights where I talk and you pretend not to listen. Fine. I’ll talk to a wall again.” Deep breath. “You’re being a baby. Stop running away. Clint, what happened happened. You can’t just escape sleep by counting. People died, yes. But you knew going in to SHIELD that people are going to die. What you did under Loki was Loki’s doing, not yours. You can’t dwell on-”

“And I told you that I’m not dwelling on it! This isn’t about that! This isn’t about that at all!” With this outburst, Clint opens his eyes, glaring at the empty space again.

“Damn it, Phil. That’s not it at all.”  
*  
“Would you look at that, it’s yet another dead end.”

“Fuck off, Barton!”

“Oooh, you know he’s pissed now that he’s using my real name.”

“FUCK. OFF!”  
*  
Clint raises a brow at the warm mug of hot chocolate offered to him. “Sitwell, we’re in a middle of a desert. It’s the middle of the day. It’s about 90 degrees Fahrenheit outside, which means that inside this tent, it’s at least five degrees higher with worse humidity. And you’re offering me a fucking hot chocolate?”

“Well, you see-”

“Fucking hot chocolate?”

Sitwell holds the bridge of his nose. “It’s to help you sleep,” he grumbles. “A little thank you never hurt anyone, you know.”

“Hot chocolate?”

“Just… drink it.”

Sitwell leaves without another word, leaving the mug on the table. Clint stares at the mug, unsure what his response should be. Should he drink that?

“Why not?” asks Phil as he comes to stand behind Clint. “Sitwell’s not the type to poison drinks. There’s no harm in trying it.”

Clint closes his eyes briefly and takes deep breaths. He doesn’t turn around and instead continues to stare at the mug.

“Granted, I’ve already tried these kinds of things before. You liked Chamomile tea the best, didn’t you? Still didn’t help you sleep, though. Clint, is the reason why you’re not sleeping-”

“No one asked you!” Clint whirls around, coming face to face with empty space again. “Tch! Again? Why don’t you just stick around? If you’re going to bother me, then fucking _stay_!”

The empty space doesn’t respond. And he must be completely nuts if he’s expecting it to respond. But he wants to hear that voice again. The slightly chiding voice of a mother hen… the soft voice of a gentle lover… the voice of Phil. He wants to hear it again.

Even if it’s just in his head, he wants to hear it.

“Fuck.”  
*  
“We… we’re funded by the Ten Rings…”

“Aha! Hear that, Robin Hood? I’m going to win this bet!”

“Sure, sure, Ironass. Keep telling yourself that.”  
*  
 _17,279… 17,280… 17,281…_

“Hey Barton? Are you sleeping…?”

Tentative voice. Unsure. Must be Banner.

Clint opens his eyes and turn to stare at Bruce Banner, who is leaning against the outside of the driver’s seat of the truck, hands dangling inside because the window is open. Clint’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck, trying to fall asleep (under Sitwell’s orders), when he’s interrupted.

“I’m awake, doc,” he assures Bruce. “What up?”

“I… er… heard that you weren’t sleeping. Want to talk about it…?”

The archer stares at Bruce, face unreadable as the doctor waits for some sort of an answer. Then Clint sighs and scratches his nose. “What’s there to talk about? I have bouts of insomnia. Most of the agents around here do. You giving individual attention to everyone, too, doc?”

Bruce looks down at his hands for a second. Then he looks back up at Clint. “It’s just… a lot of others seem to be getting better. Or at least learning how to cope…”

“Are you saying that I’m not?”

The doctor nervous fiddles his hands. “No, you’re not even trying.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The bags under your eyes are getting worse. Your driving is starting to waver a little. You’re really cranky all the time. I… er… also overheard Sitwell asking about some remedies to make children fall asleep. And seeing that there aren’t any children here…”

“And you automatically thought that he was talking about me?”

Bruce gives a small shrug of the shoulders. “I don’t see anyone else he’s babysitting.”

Clint flinches, which causes the doctor to frown. Babysitting. That’s the word that everyone used to describe Coulson’s relationship with him. To describe Sitwell’s relationship with him like this…

“Ah, sorry. Was that the wrong thing to say?”

The archer shakes his head. “No. No. Just… caught me off guard…”

“Someone close to you died during the Loki incident, right? That’s why you can’t sleep, right?”

Clint looks away. “A lot of people lost someone in that incident.”

“The person you lost… it was Agent Coulson, wasn’t it? He was your handler. He took care of you. And now you can’t sleep because you feel guilty for what happened.”

“I’m not guilty. It wasn’t my fault. I already know that.”

“Then why can’t you sleep?”

“… Dunno.”

Bruce looks down at his hands again. “Maybe that’s the problem? You can tell yourself in your head that you’re not guilty. But you don’t believe it yourself. That’s why you’re struggling to fall asleep at night.”

“And I’m saying that it’s not guilt. I’m a fucking assassin, doc. I’m not put off by guilt like a normal person.”

“So why don’t you go to sleep?”

“Because I can’t!” Clint turns to look at Bruce, who is now staring at the archer. “Are all of you stupid or something? What can’t you understand about _I just can’t fucking sleep!?_ ”

“And I’m saying that it’s guilt. I’m telling you that you’re not forgiving yourself. That’s why you can’t go to sleep. Barton, I’m sure you’re a good agent, and I know that you’re a great archer. But if you don’t sleep-”

Clint grabs Bruce by the collar, their faces just inches apart from one another. “Blame this on guilt one. More. Time.”

“Then what is it? Surely you have an idea of what it is if you’re this vehement that it’s not guilt?” Bruce is calm, but there’s a flash of green in his eyes. Clint knows he needs to back off. He needs to let Bruce be, because he’s pushing the doctor too far.

“… It’s nothing.” Clint releases Bruce and turns away. “Just… go away, Banner. I’m going to try to sleep.”

“Clint-”

“Please. Just… go away.”

Bruce sighs softly and then walks away. Clint closes his eyes and tries to visualize Phil’s office room ceiling, which was what he was counting before. But it’s hard to get the image back. What’s up with the people here and trying to ruin the visuals? He lets out a frustrated groan and rubs his temples.

“Headache?”

“Go away,” Clint answers with a hiss.

“You’re not sleeping because of a simple reason, isn’t it?”

“Go the fuck away.”

“It’s because you’re waiting.”

“Go away.”

“Clint, you’re waiting-”

“Shut up!” The archer turns to look, but there’s no one around him at all. Phil isn’t there. Well, of course Phil isn’t there. Phil’s dead. What’s he doing then, conversing with a dead person in his head?

“Shit. I’m going insane.”  
*  
“Hah! Take that, Stark. This mission was a busywork mission. There’s no Ten Rings anywhere.”

“Urgh! Fine! Fine! You win, Hawkass! So what did you want me to make anyways?”

“Well…”  
*  
“Done with playing around, Stark?” Nick Fury asks as he smirks down at the billionaire.

“It was fun babysitting all of your problematic agents, if that’s what you mean. Barton’s a sarcastic asshole, just so you know.”

“You want to call the mission off. Fine. You still have to turn in necessary paperwork.”

“Ah fuck,” Tony groans, making a face. “I thought you were going to let me slide. C’mon, I gave your agents a playground. You should be grateful enough to not give me any!”

“You use SHIELD agents for a mission, Stark. Follow the protocol,” Fury says with a shrug. “So how did the agents look on the field?”

“Most of them seemed fine. But I’m kind of worried about your archer dude. I think he needs some spa treatment or something. So why don’t you let me take Hawk and Widow to my tower and house them for a bit?” Tony grins at Fury, whirling a pen in his fingers.

“You mean your Avenger Tower that you’re constructing.” Fury doesn’t look very surprised. He shoots an unamused look at Tony. “Well, it’s up to them. SHIELD provides barracks for them, but if they prefer to be elsewhere, they’re allowed. Why don’t you ask them?”

“I asked the Widow,” Tony admits, scratching the back of his neck. “But she said only if Hawk agrees.”

“And did Hawk agree?”  
*  
 _22,612... 22,613… 22,614..._

“All dots accounted for, Clint?”

Clint doesn’t turn to look. Phil might disappear if he does. So he just keeps his eyes focused on the ceiling. As long as he doesn’t look, Phil should stay, right? As long as he doesn’t respond. As long as he doesn’t react.

“How long are you going to do this?” Phil asks gently. “You’re making a lot of people worried, you know that, right? You’ve been in this room for three days since the Ten Rings assignment, Clint. You haven’t eaten or slept. You’re just counting the dots over and over again. Why are you doing this?”

Don’t say anything. Don’t move. Don’t look. Don’t react.

“Clint…”

The archer closes his eyes and breaths out slowly. “I’m going to do this for as long as needed.”

“And just why is it so necessary to keep awake?”

“Because… Because I’m waiting.” Clint slowly opens his eyes. “When I wait, I count. When I need to pass the time, I count. When I’m trying to cope, I count. You know that, Phil.”

“And what exactly are you waiting for?”

Clint turns slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse before his eyes meet the empty space. But there’s nothing there. As always, it’s just empty space, and Clint is left in an empty room of the bedroom of the apartment that he shared with Phil. Of course, there’s no one there.

There’s always no one there except for him.  
*  
“Here,” Tony Stark says as he holds the device in his hand. “I got what you asked for. But why do you need this?”

Clint smirks and takes it from him with ease. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Oh, by the way, I wanted you to move in with us. At the Avenger Tower?”

The archer stares at the device and tilts his head to the side. “I’ll let you know.”  
*  
 _30,495… 30,496… 30,497…30,498._

Clint looks around. “You’re not coming back, are you?” He fiddles around with the device Tony got him. “Then why did I get this for? Tell me, Phil. Why am I doing this?”

But no one answers. Just like always, no one’s there.  
*  
Natasha kicks down the door with ease and walks into the apartment, her hands on her hips. “Clint,” she hisses when she spots her friend in the bedroom, lying on the bed. “Have you been lying here since I left you a month ago?”

“Oh hey, Tash. How was your mission?”

“Clint, I’m serious. Have you seriously been just lying here?”

“Been counting.”

She sighs softly and comes to sit on the corner of the bed. She gently moves his short blonde locks away from his forehead. “What are you waiting for?”

“Seems like everyone wants to know the answer to that question.”

“Do you have one?”

“Tash… I…” Clint hesitates, trying to form the words. No, not really forming the words. He’s trying to get the word out. He has the words formed in his head, it just won’t come out. But if it’s for Natasha, he sure as hell can try, can’t he? “I’m waiting for…”

She doesn’t say anything. Just waits patiently. So he takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. And when he’s sure that he can form the words, he does.

“I’m waiting for Phil to come home.”

“Oh Clint,” she says softly. And she just lies down next to him, letting him know that she’s there.

They fall asleep like that, sharing the warmth of those who understands the pain of losing the one they love.

And Clint realizes that he’s not alone. No, not anymore.  
*  
“Clint, what’s this?” Natasha asks as she plays with the device that Tony Stark has made for Clint.

“Ah, sunglasses.”

“I can see that. But why do you have another one?”

The archer shrugs. “Looked cool.” He doesn’t mention that it’s a camera. He can take a photo with it and the lens will reflect the picture. So that he can look at the ceiling of the bedroom without having to imagine it, having to hold the image in his mind. So that he doesn’t have to lose that image by the conversation of others.

Natasha understands so she just puts the sunglasses back. “So about the proposal from Stark…”  
*  
Few days later, Tony Stark walks out of the elevator and into the kitchen floor. He is greeted by the smell of bacon, eggs, and waffles. In the kitchen, Steve is cooking the meat while Bruce is merrily mixing up the batter. Natasha is throwing blueberries and chocolate into the mix that Bruce is making and Thor is cooking the waffle.

And on the table, with his head resting against his arms as pillow, is Clint Barton, sound asleep.  



End file.
